


Ghosts of Christmas Past

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas isn't exactly the Winchester boys' favorite holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Christmas Past

"Cleveland," Dean said, taking a swig of his beer. "That was the worst."

Cross-legged on the other bed, Sam paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. "Possessed department store Santas," he recalled, shuddering. "With music."

"And elves."

"And elves. In _Ohio._" Sam had a thing about Ohio. Once, on a nighttime drive between Vegas and Amarillo, he spent three hours trying to convince Dean that Ohio was the most evil of all the states. Dean wasn't convinced -- Florida got his vote, mostly because of Mickey Mouse -- but he had to agree Ohio was in the top five.

"But the snowmen in Minnesota were pretty bad too," Dean went on thoughtfully, studying his sesame chicken. He hoped it was chicken, anyway. In this shithole Bible-belt town, there was only one restaurant open on Christmas Day, and it hadn't exactly been the type of place to inspire confidence in the vigilance of the local health inspection department.

"I hate snowmen," Sam agreed. "I never want to see a carrot do that again."

Dean still decapitated every carrot-nosed snowman he saw, just on principle, and he suspected that Sam did the same.

Sam wasn't looking at Dean when he went on: "Remember Augusta?"

_How the hell could I forget?_ Dean thought, but he only said, "Yeah."

Marianne Mapleton, blonde hair and southern drawl, haunted plantation and fifteen minutes too late. Fifteen fucking minutes. He still dreamed about her sometimes, every few months without warning, her soft curves and teasing lips, her laughter in his ear and legs wrapped around him, slipping away and going cold, hard, lifeless just beyond his grasp.

"Yeah," he said again, and finished the rest of his beer.

"I'm sorry."

Dean nodded; he knew Sam wasn't apologizing for bringing it up. He reached out and grabbed another bottle of beer, twisted off the cap and took a drink. "Spokane?" he said after a moment, ignoring the rough edge in his own voice.

Sam shook his head, but he smiled slightly. "The entire state of Washington remembers that Christmas, Dean."

"They should," Dean said. "That was a classic." The only part that had sucked was not being able to brag about it. _That was my dad,_ he'd wanted to say, so many times, to so many different people. _That was my dad who killed the murderous spirit and saved all those little girls and blew up that whole evil school. That was my dad. He did that._ He remembered racing away before the cops arrived, Sam wide-eyed and stunned in the back seat, Dad soot-blackened and grim beside him, flames filling the night sky behind them, and he remembers how they had all burst out laughing when he'd broken the silence with an awed, _That was so fucking cool, Dad!_

"Bismarck?"

They both shivered at the memory. December in North Dakota with no electricity, no firewood, four cans of soup in the kitchen and no fucking clue when Dad was going to come back. Even without him saying it, Dean knew Sam had never quite forgiven Dad for that one. Dean wasn't sure he had, either.

"You know," Sam said, picking at the label of his beer bottle, "I thought it would change, when I went away to college."

Dean looked at him. "Thought what would change?"

"You know," Sam gestured vaguely with his bottle, "our family tradition of having the worst Christmases ever. I thought... well, it thought if I wasn't hunting, it would be different."

"Was it?" Dean tried to sound casual, like it didn't matter to him, but he couldn't hide the genuine curiosity in his voice.

Sam grinned. "No. Just ask the Palo Alto fire department." There was a story there, a story Dean knew he should ask about, but before he could say anything Sam was already moving on. "What do you think happened to those kids in Connecticut?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugged. Some of their memories were Christmas tragedies, some of them Christmas miracles, but most of them were stuck somewhere in between. "They probably grew up, finished school, got married, had a bunch of kids. Just like everybody else." He never looked them up, the people they saved. He told himself he didn't want to know if somebody he'd risked his skin rescuing from a homicidal poltergeist had turned around and gotten hit by a car two months later, but he knew there was more to it than that.

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding slowly. "They probably did."

When Dean was being honest with himself, he knew he never checked up on them because he just didn't want to know. If they couldn't go back to their normal lives, if they couldn't move on and let the memories fade, if they never got past seeing monsters in every shadow and danger around every corner--

Well. That was why he didn't want to know.

"Kids are tough," Sam was saying. "They can handle more than adults give them credit for."

Something in his tone set off warning bells in Dean's mind and snapped him back to the conversation. "True," he agreed warily.

"Do you remember that first Christmas? After Mom died?"

There it was. Not quite a punch to the gut, because he knew Sam well enough to be expecting it, but the question still stopped Dean's heart for a second and made his breath catch in his throat.

He said shortly, "Yes."

"What was it like?"

Memories faded, like photographs. Colors became softer, blended together, sounds drifted away, edges worn smooth. Toys and wrapping paper, trying to interest Sammy in playing with a red bow, cookies from the store rather than the oven, Dad's big hands closing around a new baseball, boots crunching through the ice-crusted snow in the park as the sun went down, and climbing out of bed in the middle of the night, terrified and confused, creeping down the hall to find Dad awake with the baby in his arms, a worn quilt wrapped around them and a hoarse whisper: _Can't sleep, buddy? Come on over here, that makes two of us._

"I'm glad you don't remember it," Dean said.

He set the carton of food aside, his appetite gone. Sam was looking at him, watching him in that way he had, but Dean refused to look up. He read every word on the label of his beer bottle, picked at the edges with his fingernails, concentrated on the familiar sound of _A Christmas Story_ playing on the television behind him.

"Christmas," Dean said finally, because he knew Sam was waiting for him to say something, "really sucks."

When he finally looked up, Sam was smiling sadly. "This one's not so bad."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped himself. They had food, they had shelter, they had beer. Nothing was trying to kill them. The water pressure in the motel shower was incredible. They hadn't seen a single enchanted homicidal snowman all season. It was even snowing a little bit outside, just enough to make it feel like winter.

Dean picked up the food carton again and held it out toward Sam. "Trade you the chicken-flavored mystery meat for the beef-flavored mystery meat."

Sam laughed. "See, I knew you could get into holiday spirit."

As long it wasn't the kind of holiday spirit that needed to be shot in the face, this year, this once, Dean was willing to go along with it.


End file.
